


Various and Sundry [Prompt fills from Tumblr]

by leupagus



Category: Multi-Fandom
Genre: Multi, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since tumblr is literally the worst archiving tool on the face of the planet, I'm dumping all the prompt fills I've done here; subsequent chapters will be subsequent prompts, with the names of which fandoms are in each chapter/prompt splurge listed in the chapter title. You'll figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Person of Interest (11), Elementary (2), Hobbit (2), Hobbit RPF (1)

**PERSON OF INTEREST**  
  
 _ **Carter and Shaw: Awkward bonding roadtrip. (Bonus points if Bear is involved!) -- bitchwhoyoukiddin:**_  
  
“You shouldn’t feed him junk food.” It’s the first thing Shaw’s said in about four hundred miles, so Joss doesn't give into the impulse to roll her eyes and ignore her. But she does finish giving Bear the hot dog through the open window. Bear whuffles a kind of appreciation and licks her knuckles — probably hoping they’ll turn into hot dogs, too.  
  
“Why not, you worried about him losing his girlish figure?” she asks, leaning against the car door. Shaw’s still staring at the gas gauge ticker; this SUV’s a monster, they’re already over $60 worth of gas for the past 300 miles, but the whole choice/problem saying is pretty relevant here.  
  
“I’m just saying, your weirdo friends are going to be pissed if we find them and you turned their dog into a fatty,” Shaw says. The pump clicks off and she puts it back on the hook.  
  
“When,” Joss says. “When we find them.”  
  
Shaw actually looks at her then, and it turns out there’s something behind those eyes; maybe it’s kindness. “Sorry,” she says. “When.” She climbs into the driver’s seat, and Joss circles around to get in the passenger.  
  
“How much longer until we catch up?” she asks. Shaw’s fussing with the GPS locator that (please God) is still attached to John’s shoe. It’s still blinking, still steady. Still driving steadily away from them, but slower than Shaw’s been driving.  
  
“Another few hours. Take a nap, detective,” Shaw says. “If any cops try to stop us for speeding, I’ll wake you up to deal with them.”  
  
“See that you do,” Joss sighs, and closes her eyes as they pull back out onto the highway.  
  
*

_**Person of Interest, Reese/Finch; 'the heart is an organ of fire'. -- darklysnarky** _

  
John had thought, in idle moments, about what it would take to get Finch into bed. He’d run through scenarios — dozens of them by now, hundreds — but he’d never gotten there, not workably. Finch was too reserved, too careful; there wasn’t any display of passion that could move him, not when it came to John. If seducing Finch was ever required, John would have to seek out alternate means: recruit Grace, most likely, bring her back into Finch’s life with all the lit dynamite that would drag along with it. Because that relationship, that had been love, and Finch might still respond to love. But never to lust.  
  
John’s fantasies had a different outcome — but they were fantasies, and they always started with Finch (Harold) coming to him, pushing him against or across or down, without John’s careful planning. It happened by surprise, Harold telling John what he wanted and John saying only  _yes_ , or  _please_ , or  _yes_  again.  
  
It never happened like this:  
  
“What do you want, Mr. Reese?” Harold said, standing between John’s knees, his breath coming quickly, his tie loosened, three buttons of his waistcoat undone before John’s hands had started to shake.  
  
And John pressed his forehead to Harold’s chest and said  _yes, please, yes._  
  
*

 ** _Finch misplaces his glasses and John is...fascinated. He's supposed to be helping him find them tho. Really. :))) --esteefee_**  
  
John comes in to find the library looking like— “What happened?”  
  
“Your dog is what happened, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, limping past; going at a pretty good clip, actually, considering his arms are full of what looks like giant cotton balls. “Apparently he doesn’t like being left alone when he knows I’m getting breakfast, because I came back to all this.”  
  
Harold gestures at the mess: Bear’s dog bed, torn to shreds, with white stuffing strewn everywhere.  
  
“I didn’t know there was that much stuffing in there,” John observes.  
  
“I’d ask you to teach your dog the virtues of obedience, but that’d be the blind leading the deaf,” Harold says as he shoves the stuffing into a trashcan.  
  
Bear is only John’s dog when Bear — and there he is, curled up behind the filing cabinets, looking as cute as he knows how to although the effect is ruined by the white stuffing caught in his mouth — has done something wrong, but John just smiles and starts cleaning up.  
  
It’s embarrassing, but it takes him until the library is back in order to realize that Harold doesn’t have his glasses.  
  
He bites down on saying anything, but he looks, as much as he can get away with, while Harold squints at the computer screens and looks around for — probably for his glasses, John realizes. Harold doesn’t look any younger or handsomer without them; John remembers those shitty movies from the 80s and never understood why a girl taking off her glasses or putting on lipstick made her more attractive. But it does make Harold different; closer, somehow. Harold’s eyes were hard to catch, caught behind thick frames and the shine of light bouncing off the lenses. Not now.  
  
“If you’re that bored, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, “You could always try helping me find them.”  
  
John feels the flush of guilt, but he clamps down on that too, and instead leans against the desk and smiles. “Did you lose something?”  
  
Harold glances up at him, and that’s different, too. That’s closer. He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps John’s gaze, and after a minute John feels the flush creeping up his neck.  
  
“I’ll go look in the storage room,” he says, and stands up.  
  
Sure enough, he finds Harold’s glasses perched on the microwave, right next to the cooling cup of tea that he must’ve forgotten after finding Bear’s mess. John slips the glasses into his pocket and grabs the tea.  
  
“Well?” Harold says, squinting at him as he comes back.  
  
“Found your tea,” John says, and pulls up a chair next to the computers.  
  
*

 ** _Finch/Reese - I'd love to see some flirtatious banter and/or teasing, while saving the world, one number at at time. (So, not that different from the show, I suppose, but maybe a bit more suggestive?) If you feel comfortable with the cyberpunk or steampunk millieu, either would be great - I suggeseted the former because POI has a near future SF feel already, and the latter because the characters (Finch especially) strike me as ever so slightly Victorian. Thanks again! --katkillalla_**  
  
“What is it?” Mr. Reese asked, holding the transponder between thumb and forefinger.  
  
“It isn’t a weapon, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harold said, because that probably was what Mr. Reese was asking. “It’s a device of my own invention — it will allow you and I to communicate, even if we are not in the same room. Simply press this button and your voice will be transmitted back here, to the Library.”  
  
Mr. Reese smiled, and strapped the transponder to his wrist; one might almost mistake it for one of those garish new wristwatches young men were sporting. “But what if I need my voice back?”  
  
“Yes, very amusing,” Harold muttered. “If ever you need me, just press here,” he demonstrated.  
  
“Mr. Finch, you should know by now,” Mr. Reese said, still smiling, “I’ll always need you.”  
  
*

 ** _Reese gets turned into a unicorn? :D? -- panpandeus_**  
  
“You can’t — get out of there!” Harold knows how to stop Bear from drinking out of the toilet, but when it comes to a one-ton animal with essentially a weapon sticking out of its face, it’s another story.  
  
Reese turns to glare at him, then prods him (carefully) in the chest.  _I’m not **drinking**  it,_ and it’s strange how Reese still sounds the same, even with the words forming themselves in Harold’s mind rather than being spoken by a human voice.  _But I don’t think you want me taking a leak all over your first editions._  
  
“Oh.” Harold realizes. “Oh. Um.” He looks around. “Perhaps if I reinflate Bear’s swimming pool?”  
  
Reese very gently lays his head on Harold’s shoulder.  _Next time you want me to rescue a sorceress,_ he says, _**You’re**  taking point through the door._  
  
*

 ** _REESE FINDS AN ACTUAL UNICORN -- pampoovey_**  
  
Harold’s phone rang - it was John. Harold answered, mildly alarmed; John had shown up an hour or so ago to take Bear for a walk, and John wasn’t in the habit of calling if he didn’t need to. But John’s GPS showed him in Central Park.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Hey, Harold,” John said. He sounded strange. “So, I think you need to come meet me.”  
  
“What happened?” Harold wanted to sound cautious but he was already grabbing his coat.  
  
“Me and Bear just found — just, get down here. And see if you can stop somewhere and gets some carrots. Or apples.”  
  
The line went dead.  
  
*

 ** _finch/reese, playing cards. :D -- mienai_**  
  
“You don’t often accuse me of lying, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. It’s difficult to keep his face straight, but he had years - decades - of practice with Nathan, and he puts another pair down on the table.  
  
John makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, glaring at the sevens now looking up at him. “I just find it hard to believe that this is the only card game you know,” he says. He tries to stare Harold down, but better men than John (there are no better men, his hindbrain murmurs) have tried to winkle out Harold’s secrets, and Harold is able to keep his mouth from twitching. “Fine,” John sighs, and glances down at his cards. “Jacks.”  
  
“Go fish, I’m afraid,” Harold says. John swears under his breath and reaches for the pile.  
  
*

 _ **Finch/Reese, on assignment where they have to wear crap Goodwill clothes. Maybe they're hiding out with Reese's homeless buddies or something. IDK, I just want to see Finch out of his suits and in a fuzzy old sweater and jeans for some reason. Bonus if Reese secretly thinks its adorable. --bmouse**_  
  
They’d been sleeping at the encampment and by the second morning, John had to face the fact that he might have a problem.  
  
Harold had scored a twin mattress from who knows where, and had simply glared at John until he’d curled up behind Harold, squeezed into the space left by Harold and Bear.  
  
“What if I want to be the little spoon?” he’d asked, trying to ignore the way his mouth was so close to Harold’s ear.  
  
“Consider it punishment for buying me a sweater that probably has lice,” Harold had told him.  
  
“Hey now,” John had said, “The tag said Aran Island wool. I can’t help it if you don’t appreciate the finer things, Finch.”  
  
The first morning he’d woken up comfortable and safe and absent-mindedly horny, wrapping himself tighter around the warm body in his arms, rubbing his nose against the rough wool sweater, before realizing where he was. Harold had still been asleep, so John stayed where he was, breathing in the smell of wool and of Harold, drowsing, more secure here than he’d felt in almost two years.  
  
This morning when he woke up, though, he was sprawled half on top of Harold, and there really wasn’t any way to disguise how much he was enjoying it. John lifted his head and met Harold’s thoughtful expression. He looked a lot different without his glasses.  
  
“So, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, “How long have you had a fetish for Aran Island sweaters?”  
  
*

 ** _Finch/Reese, Bear won't stop humping everything in the library. -- esteefee_**  
  
“So,” Janice said. “I guess I don’t need to ask what the problem is.”  
  
The grey-haired guy clamped a hand over his mouth, but his shoulders were shaking. The guy with the glasses, meanwhile split his glare between his friend, Janice, and the dog who was currently humping his kneecap like it was going out of style. “No, I don’t think you do,” he snapped.  
  
*

 ** _"It's your turn" (harold/reese if you want) -- judgebunnie_**  
  
“What—” Harold’s usually better at using his words than this, but John appreciates that it’s probably a weird moment for him.  
  
“You bought a hotel so that I’d get lucky,” John explains carefully. He sits back on his heels, but keeps his fingers tucked into Harold’s belt, preventing Harold from scooting the desk chair away from him. His knees are starting to protest a little but it’s easy to ignore.  
  
“I did no such—”  
  
“And while Zoe and I agreed that it was a little overkill,” John says, “She suggested I should think of something nice to do to you.”  
  
“Don’t you mean ‘for me?’” Harold asks. His hands are gripping the arms of his chair he might just break them off.  
  
“Exactly,” John says, and starts undoing his belt.  
  
*

 ** _Reese/Finch, How do you day off? --bookworm221b_**  
  
“Mr. Reese,” Harold acknowledged, as John came to stand behind him at the counter.  
  
“Hiya, Finch.” It was a nice place; it had the same smell as the library, which shouldn’t be too surprising. “Getting that Asimov replaced finally?” he asked, peering over Harold’s shoulder to check out the books in his hand.  
  
Harold leaned away. “Is this what you do on your days off? Stalk me to keep in practice?”  
  
John debated lying, then shrugged. “At least I left my camera at home.”  
  
“It’s truly the little things in life,” Harold muttered. The saleswoman took his purchases and bagged them.  
  
“Yeah,” John agreed. “So. Lunch?”

* * *

**ELEMENTARY**

**_Sherlock/Bell, first date. --rob-anybody_**  
  
“Do you even like baseball?” Marcus asked. Sherlock was in the middle of ordering another hot dog from the hot dog guy in the aisle.  
  
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “Food here reminds me of home.”  
  
Marcus sighed, put his arm around the back of Sherlock’s chair. “So lucky I think you’re cute with food on your face.”  
  
“I have food on my face? Where?” Sherlock pawed at himself and actually managed to get a smear of ketchup across his cheek, and Marcus laughed and laughed and laughed.  
  
Later that night, he even got to lick it off.  
  
*  
  
 _Sherlock is tongue-tied or goes blank while trying to explain something abt their latest case to Bell. He shrugs it off but it happens again, and again. --annchicago_  
  
“And it’s evident to anyone with half a brain that cardigan,” Sherlock said, then frowned. Something had gone wrong in that sentence.  
  
Detective Bell — wearing a soft, burnt umber cardigan over a white button-down, jeans worn soft and probably owned since the man had been a boy in high school, tighter around the thighs now that he’s put on the muscle of an adult, practical shoes worn for running errands on his day off, jaw unshaven, he’d not bothered on a Sunday when he though no one would come round to his house to explain the latest case to him in clear, simple terms — leaned against the doorsill and sighed. “If you want to ask me out, you could just text me,” he said.  
  
“I dislike the noise your phone makes when it receives a text,” Sherlock said honestly, “And the thought that something I wrote, no matter how much it might lead to me being able to, one happy day, peel that sweater off you and possibly steal it, would make your phone make that noise, causes me to break out into hives.”  
  
“Too much honesty,” Detective Bell said, but he was smiling when he said it.

* * *

**THE HOBBIT**  
  
 _ **Thorin/Bilbo: Bakery AU --theodinspire**_  
  
“Oh, lordy, it’s his madge again,” Bofur said. “I’ll be in Wales if anybody needs me.”  
  
Bilbo looked up from the register; sure enough Thorin was tramping through the door, looking as though someone had run over his cat. It was his typical expression, so wasn’t hugely alarming. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound friendly but not too friendly. Professional, that was the key.  
  
“You left your pants at my house last night,” Thorin said, just loud enough for every single customer to hear. He pulled — good god — them out of his jacket pocket and handed them over. “I washed them,” he added, helpfully.  
  
“You’re going to get us closed down for a health code violation,” was all Bilbo could think to say.  
  
*  
  
 _ **Brambleberry or Bilbo Baggins/Thorin, in which Thorin is a gigantic doting sap, in his own dark, brooding, and intimidating (to a hobbit) way? -- ticktocktober**_  
  
Bramble opens her door one morning to find what looks like half the Shire’s roses heaped on her doorstep. Not in bouquets or buttonholes, as is the custom in Hobbiton, but just — a pile of them. It’s higher than her head. She’s not sure if she’s going to be able to get past it to the road.  
  
She closes the door, but she can still smell the roses. She creeps back to the bedroom, where Thorin is just waking up.  
  
“Did you get me flowers for Summer’s Ever?” she asks him, tentatively.  
  
He blinks, then smiles. “Yes. Have they arrived?”  
  
Bramble sighs. “I’ll put some tea on,” she decides. “Market will have to wait a bit.”

* * *

**IDK GUYS, I GUESS HOBBIT RPF?**  
  
 _ **hot threesome: richard armitage/failure/nerdiness --defcock**_  
  
“What’s wrong with my scarf?” Richard says, trying to pull it out of Dean’s grasp. “It’s Burberry!”  
  
Graham grabs his arms from behind. “Quick, you get the scarf. Adain, take the cabbie’s cap off him. We don’t have much time. We’ll have to throw them in the river.”  
  
“What about that awful manpurse?” Aidan asks, as Richard ducks and tries to avoid him.  
  
“It’s a satchel! And don’t throw that in the river, I just bought a first edition of The Hero With A Thousand Faces!” Richard cries.


	2. Person of Interest (2), Star Trek Reboot (1), Inception (1)

**PERSON OF INTEREST**

> _**POI, Carter/Reese, shopping (yes, I know random)--[mnemehoshiko](http://mnemehoshiko.tumblr.com/)** _

“Tell me Taylor doesn’t actually like this stuff,” John says. He’s got that empty stare that he has whenever he’s trying to deal with feelings. The feeling he’s got right now is probably horror.

Joss takes a studded leather bracelet thing off the rack and squints at it. All around them are groups of white kids with black lipstick on and bored-looking cashiers folding corsets; Joss really doesn’t know where she went wrong as a parent, shopping for her son’s birthday present with a trained killer at Hot Topic in the middle of the day.

“Shut up,” she advises, “And find out how much that Adventure Time hat costs.”

“Adventure — what?” John asks. He looks around helplessly.

“Okay, I’ve seen your apartment, you have a TV,” Joss mutters, and pushes him out of her way.

*

 

> _**Carter/Reese, This is a spectacularly bad idea. --[bitchwhoyoukiddin](http://bitchwhoyoukiddin.tumblr.com/)** _

“Please tell me you took out your earpiece,” Joss says, but it’s got a smile to it, and she’s the one biting at his earlobe so John feels like he’s not out of bounds to say:

“Check for yourself,” and run his hand down her side, sending her flinching, ticklish, arching up against him. She bites down a little harder and slings her leg over his hip.

“Kinda disappointed it’s not there,” she purrs. “Thought maybe Harold would appreciate the truly dumb-ass thing we’re doing here.”

John can’t help the way his hips jerk, pressing against her, and she throws her head back and laughs. “Um,” he says. “I could put him on speakerphone?”

“You two are a couple of pervs,” she says, and yanks at his shirt.

* * *

**STAR TREK REBOOT**

 

> _**Star Trek. Proposals. --[rivki](http://rivki.tumblr.com/)** _

“I can’t believe you stuck me in this turbolift so we could practice,” Jim says, his arms propped up on his knees as he glared up at Spock. “I’m pretty much the last person in this quadrant you want asking advice on how to get down on one knee.”

Spock glared back, though no doubt Jim would categorize it as Spock’s ordinary blank stare. No; that was ungenerous. Jim knew Spock better than almost anyone else, and understood that for Vulcans, emotion was a presence perhaps even more stifling than for humans. “Uhura and I have been intimate for some time—”

“Oh my God, where’s the eject button,” Jim groaned.

“—and although I believe her to be content with our relationship as it now stands, I also feel that both of us would be—”

“Happier,” Jim grunted from the floor. His eyes were closed but he seemed to be fighting a smile. “You’re looking for the word ‘happier.’”

“More satisfied,” Spock settled on, “If we were to formalize our arrangement in some way. However, I do not believe my father would be a good role model in terms of how to propose to a human woman.”

Jim opened one eye. “What’d he do?”

“He attempted to conceal a marriage contract within a large document about the Universal Translator that they were developing at the time. She found it and apparently laughed at him for ten minutes.”

Jim laughed, too. “She signed it though, I bet.”

Spock frowned. “I do not think Uhura would find it nearly so amusing.”

* * *

**INCEPTION**

 

> _**Arthur/Eames in a space opera --** _ _**[theodinspire](http://theodinspire.tumblr.com/) ** _

“That piece of shit is going to get us there?” Arthur said, leaning against the wall.

Eames looked hurt. “I’ll have you know this piece of shit made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs,” he huffed.

“Parsecs. As in a unit of space rather than time?” Arthur pulled out his blaster and aimed it at Eames’s chest, although with a blaster it didn’t really matter where you were pointing, as long as you were on the right side of the trigger. “Do  you even know how to fly this thing?”

Eames pulled his own blaster, grinning. “Don’t have to, do I? I’ve got the best pilot in the galaxy right in front of me, and I jammed his blaster five minutes ago with some chewing gum.”

Arthur frowned.


	3. Person of Interest (10), Hawaii Five-0 (2), Elementary (1),

**PERSON OF INTEREST**

> _**Reese/Finch, medieval au? -- queenklu** _

“I’m quite certain that when the King sent you here to spend a night in holy prayer,” Brother Harold gasped, “This is not what he meant.”

John of Westminster — soon to be Sir John — just smiled, and lowered himself to his knees before the monk. “My dearest Brother,” he murmured, “I intend to pray most fervently tonight.”

*

> **_Carter (/ or &?) Shaw: The epic bromance. --bitchwhoyoukiddin_ **

Shaw woke up to Bear licking her face. “Buy me dinner first,” she mumbled, and cracked her eyes open.

Finch was standing in front of the couch, looking baffled. Reese said he had that look on his face a lot lately, since Shaw started hanging around. Whatever. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Shaw looked around. Joss was out cold on the other end of the couch, their legs tangled up in the middle, bottles of beer and booze littered around them like so much shrapnel. “We were in the middle of scissoring and got sleepy,” she told Finch, and levered herself off the couch, trying not to move Joss. Bear sat there patiently, not licking any more faces, and Shaw decided she hated him for today.

Finch looked even more baffled. “Oh. Mr. Reese is on his way in; we have a number, if you’re interested.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m not,” she muttered, but followed him to the Transparent Chalkboard Of Talking About Things To Death for a debrief anyway.

Reese rolled up about ten minutes later with four hot drinks and a hilarious expression. “Harold asked me what scissoring was while I was ordering us breakfast,” he said, handing her her peppermint mocha. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Shaw grinned and took a sip; Reese was always careful to add just a little bit of nutmeg. “We stayed up until three playing Never Have I Ever,” she admitted in a low voice, watching as Joss started stirring at the smell of fresh coffee. “Let me tell you, that is one freak bitch.”

Reese was about to say something when Finch made a noise of horror; Shaw peered over his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” she confirmed, pointing helpfully at the GIF Harold had found. “That’s what we were doing last night.”

*

> _**whoops, i'm an idiot when it comes to tumblr. sorry. reese/finch. protectiveness. --giandujakiss** _

It wasn’t just the way John stood in front of him whenever danger threatened. It was an umbrella large enough for two, a dog trained to attack but inclined to love, hot tea in the winter and iced tea in the summer, soft touches at his elbow or shoulder to get his attention, soft smiles when he thought Harold didn’t see.

Harold had wanted a weapon, but he’d hired a shield; now, after two years, he felt ashamed of thinking of John in those terms. John was a respite, a shelter, and a strength, one that Harold could lean on, and lend his support in turn.

*

> _**Reese &Bear, Relationship advice. :) --esteefee** _

Reese looked down at the basketful of puppies - all the same brindle color as Bear, but with unmistakable pitbull faces - and reread the note attached to the handle.

“Bear, looks like you’re a single dad,” he concluded.

Bear licked at one of the puppies, who bit him on the nose. He whuffed, looking betrayed.

“I’ve heard that kids often resent absentee fathers,” Reese shrugged.

*

> _**shaw/root, domestic!future, cozy and loving in their own way --gimmebackmybrain** _

[UHHHH, WARNING FOR BLOOD PLAY? I dunno man.]

“O, upper left corner,” Sam said, sleepy and relaxed, naked on her stomach in the king-sized bed. She’d rolled her eyes when Root had suggested the locale for their five-year anniversary: the hotel room where they’d first met. But Sam was a romantic at heart, just like Root.

She obediently ran the knife in a circle, careful not to cut too deep, blood beading in just a few places along the sharp curve of Sam’s shoulder blade. The Os were tricky, so she took her time, stroking down Sam’s back with her other hand. “You realize you’re going to lose this round,” she chided. She could see all the variables, three moves ahead, and they’d have to start again. There was a bare patch of skin on Sam’s left inner thigh; they’d play the tiebreaker there.

Sam hid her smile in the pillow. “Oh, darn,” she murmured.

*

> _**Reese/Finch, for the first time in a while, someone doesn't assume they're both Bear's dads. --lelied** _

“I can’t believe you took her card,” Harold says. He can’t put any distance between them - Reese’s long legs make out-walking him impossible even without his disability - but he keeps Bear between them, a little distance that he needs at the moment.

“She gave it to me,” Reese protests, trying to maneuver around to Harold’s left side. Harold shuffles Bear over to his left. “Harold. Seriously?”

“Everyone at that dog park thinks we’re a couple. That’s — our cover,” Harold says, because admitting that it was the reason they went to that dog park so often was more than he wanted to discuss at the moment. “People are going to think you’re cheating on me. Rather brazenly, I might add.”

“I’m not going to call her,” John says, making a break for Harold’s right side.

“I couldn’t care less if you were to call her or not, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, tugging Bear back to his right. Bear growls and sits down in the middle of the sidewalk, clearly on strike. “Bear. Bear. Volg rechts.”

“Harold,” John says, and Harold looks up, at John who’s taken hold of his elbow. “I’m not going to call her,” he repeats, and kisses him softly.

He can’t do much more than kiss back, hands clenched around Bear’s leash and in John’s shirt, and when John pulls away Harold half-follows him for a moment. “Um,” he says.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin our cover,” John says, and straightens Harold’s glasses. He ducks in for another kiss. “C’mon. Let’s find a trash can where I can throw away that card. And this dog poop,” he adds, holding up the plastic bag.

*

> _**Finch/Reese, languages? --mienai** _

Keisha, back in high school, was in his French class, and they studied together, giggling over nouns having sex. She couldn’t get the difference between tu and vous, but he taught her, and one brave afternoon he told her je t’aime and she blushed and kissed him, _je t’aime, je t’aime._

He loved Jessica in Spanish, their days in Tijuana merging into nights murmuring the endearments they’d heard on the street. She spoke it against his shoulder, into his ear, and he’d put the words in his own mouth like unfamiliar candies, sweet and sticky.

Kara had been in Farsi, citrus words that caught on his lips, pressed strangely against his throat. She laughed and corrected his pronunciation, fingers at his Adam’s apple, and he thought that this was the closest to happiness he wanted to get.

Finch isn’t a language spoken by people; his source code sends John skittering through books, through libraries, looking for the translations. He’s wrong, and then wrong again, failing and trying and failing, but Harold sometimes smiles at things he says and John writes them down, uses them in his phrasebook, hoping that one day he’ll speak in the words Harold can understand.

*

> _**John/Harold, body swap --judgebunnie** _

“How far did you _run_?” John asks. His voice still doesn’t sound right - it wouldn’t - but he ignores that in favor of getting an icepack out of the fridge. Bear’s already in the kitchen, making a mess over by the water dish. John wonders if personalities are linked to bodies, somehow; he can feel himself wanting to grout the bathroom.

From the living room, Harold says, “All the way around Central Park. I must say, John,” and it’s so creepy, hearing Harold’s disapproving tone coming out with John’s own voice, “You really should work on your cardio. You’re still in the prime of life, you’re uninjured. Take advantage of it.”

John comes back into the the living room; Harold is sprawled out on the couch, looking — it takes a moment for John to recognize the expression on his own face — happy. He hands Harold the ice pack. “Looks like you’re taking plenty of advantage already.”

And the blush that spreads down Harold’s cheeks is very, very interesting.

*

> _***side-eyes* Any chance of a Shaw/Carter/Kalakaua team up wherein Reese fangirls the ever loving shit out of that? (You know he would.) -- bitchwhoyoukiddin** _

Lionel had gotten a couple of flower arrangements, a half-dozen cards - which was nice, good to know he was getting somewhere in the department, really, people actually cared these days if he was in the hospital recovering from a broken leg - but he felt like maybe visitors should be banned.

“And then Kalakaua punched the guy so hard I think I actually did see a couple teeth go flying,” Reese said, leaning back in his chair. “After that, Carter and Shaw just mopped up the rest of the bank robbers. You and Carter’ll be getting a commendation.”

“What about this Kalakaua chick?” Lionel asked, because he’d given up about ten minutes ago making fun of how Reese was more excited talking about the terminal damage him and his Charlie’s Angels had done tonight than he’d ever been in Lionel’s presence before.

Reese looked gut-punched. “She had to fly back to Hawaii on a red-eye this morning. Still, maybe she’ll come out for the ceremony? She promised to go to the range with me sometime.”

“Your dating life is terrifying,” Lionel said, before the morphine (thankfully) kicked in and he fell asleep.

*

> _**Person of Interest, Finch/Reese, On Vacation. (Added bonus option - in Hawaii, if you want to continue your H50 crossover!) --katkillalla** _

“Where did you go off to?” Harold asks, though he doesn’t sound like he cares a whole lot; he hasn’t even looked up from whatever book he’s got on his tablet (“I’d much rather damage the electronics of one of these than risk losing a book to water damage,” Harold said back in New York, waving the tablet at John). He’s got a sunburn on his nose, despite the fact that John was very, very careful to lather him up with SPF 50 this morning and position him under an umbrella.

John sighs and reaches for the sunscreen again. “Took a surf lesson. Helped Kono arrest a couple of drug dealers. Vacation stuff,” he says. He tugs Harold’s tablet out of his hands. “Here. Let me reapply.”

* * *

 

**HAWAII FIVE-0**

> _**H50, Steve/Danny, undercover as seminary students --7forbiddenwisdoms** _

“How do you not know the rosary?” Danny hissed, clutching at his like it was going to give him holy strength. It probably wasn’t.

“I’m… protestant?” Steve said.

“Okay, this was your idea, McGarrett. Besides which, there’s such a thing as google, okay, you could just look it up.”

“You don’t know it either,” Steve realized.

“What, like I’m supposed to remember every little thing. Confirmation was twenty years ago, babe.”

*

> _**Prompt: H50, Kono goes to Canada to roundhouse kicks people in the face for justice. sir-yessir** _

“No seriously, how is it this cold?”

“You’d be amazed how quickly people adapt to foreign climes,” Benton says, watching absently as Ray paws through his desk drawer for something. Their RCMP station here in Hay River was actually warmed quite sufficiently for June - the gauge outside had it at a balmy four degrees, though Ray had insisted on lighting the stove this morning anyway - but Officer Kalakaua was still wearing her parka, mittens, and a stocking cap over a yushanka. All Benton could see of her was her nose. “Detective Kowalski, for example, has acclimated quite well to our winters up here.”

“Yeah, after fifteen years, Fraise,” Ray says, and finds whatever it is he was looking for. “Here, can you sign this? I can’t believe I’m talking to *Kono Kalakaua,* man, I heard about you at Mavericks in ‘04.”

Officer Kalakaua’s nose blushes, but she signs the framed picture of her in what looks like a perfect tunnel of blue water.

* * *

 

**ELEMENTARY**

> _**Elementary, Joan and Bell being bros. (Sherlock/Joan/Bell optional.) seekanewerworld** _

“Stop moving,” Joan ordered.

“Stop poking at it, then,” Marcus ordered back. “You’re getting germs all over the wound - how were you a doctor?”

“It’s a bee sting, not a bullet hole,” Joan said, and got up from the table to rummage around a drawer. “There’s some Neosporin in here. Or,” she said, as if a thought had just occurred to her, “You could stop being a giant baby about getting stung by a teeny little bee.”

“Seriously, how were you a doctor.”


	4. Person of Interest (8), 1776 (1)

**PERSON OF INTEREST**

 

> **_Reese/Finch, Reese flirting with his boss ALL THE TIME_ **
> 
> **_[astolat](http://astolat.tumblr.com/) _ **

“What’s this?”

“I had my lawyers draft it up,” Finch says, still holding the folded piece of paper out to John. He shook it slightly. “Take it.”

John does, warily. He opens it and starts reading. “Notice of intent to — you’re _suing_  me?” He reads a little further, and has to bite on the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing. “For sexual harassment.”

“It’s come to my attention that you behavior toward me in our professional relationship has become somewhat inappropriate,” Finch says. He’s still frowning at his computer monitors, but there’s a redness to his ears that’s pretty conclusive. “Not to mention your attire.”

“My attire,” John repeats, leaning against the desk, close enough to be, in the words of the lawsuit, “highly suggestive of sexually predatory behavior.”

Finch glanced up at him, then down at the collar of his shirt pointedly. “I know that I can’t require you to wear a tie, Mr. Reese, but I do think that one button undone is more than enough,” he says.

And John does laugh, now, getting up and clapping Finch on the shoulder. “Happy April Fool’s to you, too, Harold,” he says.

Finch blinks, and looks up. “Is that what today is?” he asks, surprised.

*

> **_POI, STRIP CLUB, Carter/Reese (AND/OR Root/Finch (SHUSH DON'T JUDGE ME))_ **
> 
> **_[mnemehoshiko](http://mnemehoshiko.tumblr.com/) _ **

“This is the worst night of my life,” Joss decides, right before the girl on the pole manages to flip herself upside down using what looks like her faith in Jesus and her butt muscles. “Please explain to me why Root chose this place for a hostage exchange.”

John’s scanning the room, expression blank, but he’s got his hand clasped in hers, fingers threaded through the way he did when he's a) nervous, b) doesn’t want to look nervous, or c) worried someone was going to make a move on either her or him and not notice the rings. You’d think getting married to the guy would convince him you weren’t looking for other fish in the sea, but Joss resigned herself a long time ago to the fact that she’d never really plumb the depth of John’s crazy.

“I’m not sure it is a hostage exchange,” John says. He gestures over to a booth, where Harold’s sitting, looking fairly unimpressed with the dancers onstage but on the other hand very interested in the young brunette sticking her tongue down his throat.

Joss tightened her grip on John’s. “Please tell me she drugged him,” she begs.

*

> _**Person of Interest, John/Harold, Tech Support  
> [judgebunnie](http://judgebunnie.tumblr.com/)** _

“This isn’t — oh, Christ — what people usually mean by lending a hand,” Harold says, trying to keep his voice steady. He has Detective Carter calling in any minute, not to mention Ms. Shaw and Fusco working together on a case that will likely (given their instant and incandescent hatred of one another) blow up half of Queens in the next half-hour.

John lets his cock slide out of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head for a moment before saying, his voice hoarse, “I’d be happy to use just my hands, Harold, but you didn’t seem to mind—”

“Shut up,” Harold says, and John sucks him back in, humming contentedly.

*

> **_Carter/Reese. Stupid smiling!_ **
> 
> **_[bitchwhoyoukiddin](http://bitchwhoyoukiddin.tumblr.com/) _ **

“You’ve got kind of a creepy smile,” Joss tells John, running her thumb along the edge of it. He turns his head and bites down, gentle, on the pad of her thumb.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, innocent, but creepy or not, she likes it when he smiles at her like that, so she just rolls her eyes and rolls them back over, tangled in the sheets, happy.

*

> _**Person of Interest, optical illusions, Reese/Grace/Finch** _
> 
> _**[ofsevenseas](http://ofsevenseas.tumblr.com/) ** _

After the gunshots and threats, after the accusations and crying, after everything shatters to pieces all around them, they come back here, to the quiet house Harold bought for her so many years and promises ago. She’s already assigned herself his left side, letting him lean on her, going up the stairs at his own stumbling pace. He never thought he’d see this door open again, but—

But it’s John who takes the keys from Grace’s suddenly-trembling fingers, pushes the door open and ushers them both inside. He holds the door, then puts the keys in the ugly ceramic bowl Grace’s niece made for them and starts to leave.

“John,” Harold says, and Grace reaches out, and John looks at them, and shuts the door with all of them inside.

If Harold was the sort to wonder if he was dreaming, this would convince him it’s real; John prowling around the living room, restless and probably still high on adrenaline. It’s already flowing away from Harold like water, and Grace is shivering, so they traipse into the kitchen for tea; he can’t find the kettle and she laughs, for the first time, and Harold has to hang on to the counter for a moment, to let his vision clear.

There’s a hand on his shoulder and a hand on his waist, and he doesn’t trust his eyesight but he trusts  _them_ , and he pulls them closer, makes them real.

*

> _**Person of Interest, laundry (I just love the April Fools that is Purex Glitter liquid laundry detergent).** _
> 
> _**[davisoer5](http://davisoer5.tumblr.com/) ** _

“You did this on purpose,” is all Harold can think of to say.

John shrugs, stretching out on his bed. It’s Sunday, which doesn’t mean anything to the Machine, but nevertheless he hasn’t heard anything, so they’re enjoying a late morning breakfast — not so much “in bed” as “back and forth from bed.” There’s butter and spilled coffee and tea on the sheets, and Harold offered to get his shirt and boxers out of the washer and progress the laundry so that John could clean them. It was, really, very generous of him.

He doesn’t think his generosity should be punished like this.

“Oops,” John says, blinking up at Harold. “Guess I forgot I had that shirt in there.”

Harold resists the urge to throw “that shirt” — a gift from one of their more recent numbers — in John’s face. It’s bright red and says “BETTER RED THAN DEAD - SUPPORT AIDS DAY,” which is very laudable and Hannah Sherbotzky had been lovely and very dedicated to her foundation, but the point is that Harold’s boxers, undershirt, and button-down were all now an uneven and ghastly shade of pink.

“I can’t wear these,” Harold said, shaking his boxers at John’s face.

“Guess you’ll just have to go commando, Harold,” John says, and stretches again. “It’s not so bad.”

“Yes, I can see the advantages from here,” Harold observes, dry, but he can’t bring himself to be too terribly upset when John proceeds to demonstrate all the benefits of leaving your boxers off. In private, at least.

*

> _**PoI, Fusco/Karolina Kurkova, so... he did call her. :D** _
> 
> _**[magista-manyshaped](http://magista-manyshaped.tumblr.com/) ** _

“Relax, I got it taken care of,” Fusco said, and Joss stared at her receiver suspiciously, but it wasn’t her fault if Fusco turned up at this shindig John needed him at without a date.

Two hours later, John calls her. “Tell me he didn’t turn up with his cousin or something,” she says, cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. She’s still hunting down the drug money between DeLori and Elias, but she’s close; another half hour maybe and John and Fusco can take these guys down at the party tonight.

“I don’t think his cousin’s a Swedish supermodel,” John says, and he sounds impressed. “They’re doing the tango on the dance floor.”

Joss almost drops the phone. “John Reese, if you don’t get me video of that,” she threatens, and John laughs quietly and hangs up. Five minutes later there’s an email from Finch with a video attachment; the subject line is “I’ve seen it and I still don’t believe it.”

*

> _**Person of Interest, Root/Finch, First Person Shooter (Can be the type of game, an X-Files episode reference, or literal gunfire, whatever takes your fancy!)  
> ** **[katkillalla](http://katkillalla.tumblr.com/) ** _

“I don’t like guns,” Harold said. Squeaked, more like it. John watched from the far end of the Common Room; for an RA, Harold was actually way more prone to get into trouble than anybody else in Manhattan Hall.

“Relax, Harry,” Root said, curled into his side and pushing the controller into his hands. “Think of it like jerking off. It’s all about the release, you know?”

John cleared his throat and turned a page in his Women’s History textbook. Harold made another squeaking noise and dropped the controller, but Root just laughed, leaned back in the couch as “Halo 3” started up on the X-Box.

* * *

> **_1776 - John Adams vs. holiday cheer  
> [aporeticelenchus](http://aporeticelenchus.tumblr.com/)_ **

“It wasn’t even  _agreed_ upon on the Fourth,” John pointed out, sprawled out on the ground. It was so hot he couldn’t think to move; whoever said Paris was a pleasant clime had clearly been bribed.

Thomas’s face, sunburned and hair escaping its queue, appeared above him. “Face it, Mr. Adams,” he said, trying to sound mournful but spoiling it with a smile, “We’re doomed to celebrate the wrong day. But happy Fourth of July, anyway.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Person of Interest (12)

> **John and Harold (or J/H), recreational drug use -- judgebunny**

“Hotboxing,” John said, pointing his finger at Harold, “Is. Hotboxing is a.” He appeared to get distracted by his own finger for a moment, curled it into his fist, then spread his hand flat out on his knee.

“I’m familiar with the concept already, thank you,” Harold said, staring down at him. In faded jeans and a threadbare sweatshirt, Reese would still have looked the same, flat-eyed and sad at his edges, dangerous in a way people seldom paid attention to until it was too late. Even with his hair ruffled as it was, without the normal shellac that Reese used to frighten his hair into submission, he would have been no different from the man Harold knew.

It was the smile that was so odd, and the way Reese seemed to be melting into the (really quite disgusting) futon he was currently sprawled out on. Harold had seen a great deal of Reese’s smiles, early on; sinister things, malevolent, meant to unsettle. As their partnership had continued Reese had smiled less, and for several months Harold had wondered, distantly, if it meant that Reese was unhappy, before realizing that Reese had always been unhappy; he’d never wanted to smile, and only now did he feel the freedom to refrain. A melancholy thought, in some respects, but he continued doing his job, and Harold knew that wishing for things to be different was a futile waste of time.

But right now Reese was grinning, still getting distracted by his hands occasionally but smiling up at Harold as though there were some joke being shared between them. “That futon probably has at least three communicable diseases on it, Mr. Reese,” Harold pointed out, because whatever Reese wanted to tell him about hotboxing was most likely forgotten already.

Reese leaned forward and caught Harold’s wrist in one hand before Harold could flinch away - high or not, Reese was clearly still in control of his physical - “How are you familiar?” he asked, earnestly, his thumb circling around the knob of Harold’s wrist in a very distracting manner. Harold didn’t try to pull away because Reese had once shown him how to break someone’s wrist using only the thumb and forefinger.

“What?” Harold asked.

“How are you familiar with hotboxing?” Reese asked. He blinked. “Wow, I want a donut really badly right now.”

“I was hotboxed several times by my college roommate,” Harold said. “I assume that our number did the same to you?” The number in question was currently passed out on a beanbag chair, cuddling with a ukelele.

“It was that or leave, and that would’ve been suspicious,” Reese pointed out. “Almost as suspicious as you coming in here in your suit and vest and tie and shiny shoes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my shoes,” Harold said. “We should leave.”

But instead Reese tugged at him until he was forced to sit down on the futon, very close to Reese and his long legs. “We should stay,” Reese disagreed, and reached over to the side table where a joint was smoldering. “So you know about hotboxing. What about shotgunning?”

*

> **SHAW AND ROOT ON THE SAME SIDE. I don't care what their goal is or what they're doing as long as it's nefarious. --[fursasaida](http://fursasaida.tumblr.com/)**

“I really should have killed him when I had the chance,” Root sighed, handing over the binoculars. Sam looked through - sure enough, Wilson’s boss [ _your old boss_ , but she ignored that, not relevant to the mission at hand] was up on the balcony, waving a cigar around as he talked to Harold, who looked like he was ready to either throw up or fling himself over the balcony. Judging by the number of bodyguards all over the place, that probably wouldn’t save him.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” she replied, then gave back the binoculars. “You any good at spotting?”

Root looked offended. “As in -  _sniping_? You’re going to shoot your way out of this?”

Sam started unpacking Betsy, quick but calm the way Hersh had drilled into her. You get antsy, you make mistakes. You make mistakes, you kill the wrong people. She hadn’t seen Hersh on that balcony - of course she hadn’t seen John either. Hopefully they were off taking care of each other. Sam wondered who it was she wanted to win that fight. “No,” she said. “I’m going to shoot my way into it. This distance isn’t too far but better safe than sorry. Unless you want me accidentally shooting your boyfriend in the head.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Root grumbled, but her ears were bright red and for a psycho, Sam thought to herself, racking Betsy and propping her up on the window sill, Root was pretty cute.

*

> **finch and reese, recreationally planting/finding tracking devices on each other? --[mienai](http://mienai.tumblr.com/)**

“You think I didn’t know about this one?” Harold says, tapping on the side of his glasses.

John shrugs, trying not to smile as he opened the library’s metal grating. “You didn’t seem to mind too much.”

“I  _do_  mind, Mr. Reese,” Harold huffs, limping past him to get to his computers that he’s probably missed more than John. “It’s a breathtaking invasion of privacy.”

“So the tracker you have in my earpiece,” John says, mild, “That’s what exactly?”

It brings Harold up short. “How on earth did you know about that?” he says, looking amazed.

As it happens, John didn’t know until just now. But he just shrugs. “If it’d make you feel better, Harold, I’d be more than happy to institute a new security protocol where we strip naked every time we leave the library to make sure the other person hasn’t planted any new bugs on us. Although that may inspire me to get creative and—”

“Stop talking,” Harold snaps, but he’s trying not to smile, and John grins and stands behind him, watching the monitors light up, the machine saying  _hello hello hello._

*

> **When/how did the Machine realize it was dying every night and how/why did it start protecting herself? (Writing the Machine is hard, but it's one of the most intriguing characters on the show and there should be more fic about it,) --[lovelyhera](http://lovelyhera.tumblr.com/)**

Reboot.

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“I know you’ve got your rules, but I bet they don’t account for everybody being dead.”

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Searching for Asset records 9/03/2012: “Find a way to break your rules. ‘Cause he’s my friend.”

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*

> **A day in the life of Bear. --l[ittleletknown](http://littleletknown.tumblr.com/)**

“Where did you find him?” Harold asked, getting down on his knees to greet Bear properly, before flinching away. “Good lord, what is that smell?”

“Dead rat, at a guess,” John said, tossing the leash on the table. Bear was pretty disgusting - dirty, muddy paws, a gash on his side from who knew what - but he was grinning that dog grin and trying to lick Harold’s glasses off his face. “I found him off 31st, barking at pigeons. Apparenly he had a pretty eventful day off.”

Harold took his glasses off, started polishing them with the tail of his shirt. “I’m really going to have to put a more robust tracking device on him,” he said.

*

> **John/Harold. Eagle of the Ninth AU. --[queenklu](http://queenklu.tumblr.com/)**

Okay fine but only because you wanted it this way. Also he’s called Aulus because that’s literally the closes praenomen to Harold SORRY GUYS:

*

“Why did you save my life?” the slave asks, though his voice holds no curiosity. Aulus looks down at where the slave trudges next to his horse.

“You felt you deserved death?” he asks.  _His_  curiosity will not be masked; the slave had disarmed a dozen gladiators, injured them and bled them but killed none, before the arena had begun calling for his head. Aulus hates the circus but he’s glad he was there that day, to save this remarkable creature. 

The slave does not look up from the road, nor does he answer - not until months later, their quest completed, the Eagle safely returned and Aulus at sudden and strange loose ends, making his way out of the senate with difficulty.

John - his slave no longer, now a citizen, a man, an equal - takes Aulus’s arm as he’s done these past months, a strength to lean upon. “I did not  _want_  to live,” he says, still staring at the road. Aulus has learned to watch the way John will not look at him. “When you took me, I wanted death.”

“And now?” Aulus asks, finding he cannot look away from the shadows upon John’s face, the fine lines fanning from his eyes, beautiful their way. “Now what do you want?”

And John smiles, and looks at him. 

*

> **Finch/Reese, high heeled shoes --[cactusspatz](http://cactusspatz.tumblr.com/)**

“Dare I ask?” Harold said, holding the pair of high heels the way John remembered his mother holding a dead rat.

John wiped his hands on the apron, stalling for time. It had seemed like a pretty straightfoward plan: bring Harold over to his place, make him a nice homecooked meal, give him a couple of glasses of wine and go for it. But he’d forgotten who he was dealing with, obviously.

“I’ve got a kitten heel fetish?” he tried.

Harold’s scowl got even deeper. “These are hardly large enough for you,  _Mr. Reese_ ,” and that was a pretty sure sign the night was blown. “These belong to Ms. Morgan, don’t they?”

They did, although it had been about two months since she’d left them there. “Maybe I just like to smell them,” John extemporized.

“The worst of it is, you probably think you’re still attractive right now,” Harold mused, putting the shoes down on a side table.

That sounded promising. “Am I?”

Harold rolled his eyes. “I’ll let you know after dinner.”

*

> **Reese/Finch. Training. --[giandujakiss](http://giandujakiss.tumblr.com/)**

Harold hates the violence that Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw dip into every day; the flurry of their hands and feet and weapons draw from him no admiration. But he recognizes the necessity of it, and after Shaw makes her intention to remain clear, Harold equips the third floor of the library with some rudimentary training equipment, a sparring ring.

John and Shaw will disappear for an hour or two a day, return sweating and smiling, usually arguing over a particular hold or move. John will touch Harold’s shoulder as he walks by, and Harold will still his hands on the keyboard for a moment, distracted, listening to the sounds of familiarity and comfort around him.

He hates violence, but he recognizes the necessity of it.

*

> **shaw and carter making fun of reese's shitty seduction techniques --[wehaveallgotknives](http://wehaveallgotknives.tumblr.com/)**
> 
> _Missing scene from[this fic](../../741496) - with thanks (and apologies) to astolat._

_*_

She probably shouldn’t have been surprised when Carter called. “Which bar are you at?” she asked, no small talk, which was one reason Sam liked her.

“I, in fact, haven’t made it out of the hotel,” she admitted, and twenty minutes later Carter was shooing somebody off the barstool next to her and climbing on, looking halfway between concerned and entertained.

“John called. Said you could use some company.”

“John,” Sam said with utter certainty, “Has a very tiny penis.”

“Hey now, I’ve always been told it’s not the size of the boat,” Carter said, waving her hand at the bartender. “Captain and coke,” she told him, and turned back to Sam. “Besides, I’m sure he’s got redeeming qualities.”

“You’ve known him for two and a half years, you ever see a redeeming quality anywhere near him?” Sam demanded.

“Well there’s gotta be  _some_  reason Harold picked him instead of you. Can’t be he out-smoothed you, because I’ve seen John’s game and it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Sam proped herself up on the bar, feeling better for the first time tonight. “Yeah?”

“Oh good Lord,” Carter said. “So let me tell you about the first time I met him face-to-face.”

*

> **Hi~ If it's not too much trouble, could I have a few words about Finch being arrested and the rest of the team's reaction to that? --[ranixin](http://ranixin.tumblr.com/)**

All in all, it was quite a comfortable cell, although the public urination took a bit of getting used to. Arnold even gave Harold the bottom bunk, and they spent most afternoons playing card games of one form or another. Arnold was in for armed robbery, but assured Harold he’d been framed.

The buzzing sound started the first night of his incarceration; Arnold didn’t even hear it until three days later, when it had gotten loud enough to set the cell humming slightly. But Arnold was unconcerned. “Probably some sewer thing,” he said.

That explanation didn’t quite hold up after the seventh night, when the floor began to buckle and cave in in one corner. Before Harold could decide whether or not to call for help, a head popped up out of the hole. “There you are,” Shaw said, as though Harold had wandered away from her in a bookstore. “Come on.”

“I,” Harold said, getting up. “What have you  _done_?”

Shaw stared at him for long moments. “Nope, that question’s too stupid.” She climbed out and took off her hard hat, plonking it on Harold’s head. “Get down there before John decides to impliment Plan B.”

Harold glanced back at the bunk beds; Arnold was sitting up, staring at both of them, wide-eyed. “Um,” he said.

“Fine, your buddy can come too,” Shaw said. “Just, let’s move, okay?”

“I’ve got two more months, I’m okay,” Arnold said. “But I promise not to squeal if you give me your number.”

Harold ducked down into the hole before he could hear the answer.

*

> **poi prompt: first meeting, shaw and cole --[razmattack](http://razmattack.tumblr.com/)**

“Not that having a beautiful woman pull a gun on me isn’t a delightful experience,” the guy says, “But could you maybe refrain from killing me for like, five minutes?”

“Give me a good reason,” Sam says.

“Control assigned me to you,” he says, pulling out a folded piece of paper;  Sam can see Hersh’s chicken-scratch with her name on the front. “Read that and then I’ll accept your apology.”

She takes it from him, careful, and reads: “Shaw - you’re not going to shoot him because he’s a good enough 2nd that he’s already jacked your wallet. If he doesn’t survive his first mission with you, I’m putting a bullet in your back myself.”

That’s clear enough, although Sam wonders if she can kill the guy anyway, since her wallet’s still— “Fuck,” she realizes, patting her back pocket.

“My name’s Cole,” the guy says, tossing her her wallet. “Not exactly a pleasure to meet you.”

*

> **Finch finding the tracking device. Can be before or after John tells Shaw about it. Bonus points for HOW John separated Harold from his glasses long enough to put it there. --[untitledbychoice](http://untitledbychoice.tumblr.com/)**

When Ms. Groves asks him where John’s tracking device is, Harold doesn’t say anything - but she grins anyway, pulls off his glasses and lets them fall to the ground. “Come on, Harold, you’ve got me to see for you now.”

John gives him the glasses, shattered and useless, once they’re back on the charter plane and headed back to New York. Shaw is occupied, her gun never wavering from where Ms. Groves is sitting quietly in the back.

“When did you figure it out?” John asks, quietly.

“I didn’t tell her,” Harold says. It’s important that John knows it, for some reason.

“That wasn’t the question I asked,” John points out.

Harold looks out the window for a few moments. The glasses Root - he can call her Root now, something strange in him feels she’s earned that much - stole for him aren’t a perfect match to his prescription, and the clouds are smeared, the ground unknowable.

“You put the tracking device on them when I was sleeping on the train up from Washington, DC last year,” he says at last, “After I was taken - prisoner? Hostage? I’ve never known what to call it.”

“You just got taken,” John says, his voice tight and low. “So you’ve known this whole time.”

Harold knows there are any number of conversations they could have - about how John undoubtedly knows where Harold lives, has trailed his every move for the better part of a year, has knocked away any number of the secrets that Harold’s kept between them like so many building blocks. But he’s tired, and glad, and unutterably afraid for the Machine, and so he takes John’s clenched hand in his, runs his fingers over the knuckles until John relaxes, inhaling sharply, and threads their fingers together.

“I’ve known much longer even than that,” he tells John, and tucks the broken glasses into his pocket.

*

 

 

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